


The Unkindness

by crumplednotes



Category: Couple-ish (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Other, Religious Tones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 00:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10175945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumplednotes/pseuds/crumplednotes
Summary: Will not be continued.





	

The ravens were back—an unkindness of them this time. They stuck out even more in the parking lot of the run-down motel than they had around Rachel’s family cottage. They’d gotten past her mother’s wards—her mother’s.

The woman may be a bitch, but she was renown among the supernatural community for a reason.

“What do you want?” Rachel hissed through gritted teeth.

She was speaking more to herself than anyone (or anything) else, but as though stirred into response, the ravens started to caw one by one. They kept it up, their voices joining in a cracking cacophony that made Rachel tremble with one two parts fear and three parts rage.

Were ravens even native to this area? She didn’t know. At this point, they were basically trash birds, parasites, tucked everywhere, waiting to come in uninvited.

Trying hard to ignore them, Rachel took out her mobile and upped the volume much it could go before taking it into the bathroom. The mirror opened to show a medicine cabinet with rusted shelves, a small web in the top right corner. Rachel tapped on the play symbol with her thumb and set her mobile on the bottom shelf.

The Kidz Bop cover of “Survivor” by Destiny’s Child started playing, and Rachel stripped down, trying not to think about the brown and black spots staining the cracked tile floor. Sketchy motels like this didn’t exactly have a dedicated staff. Most here were runaways, addicts, dealers, and other types of unsavory and/or desperate ilk.

Rachel was of the desperate sort, but having to stay in a place like this still made her skin crawl. The low water pressure made her think of those urban legends where a dead body was found in the hotel water supply, and she was still cold from refusing to ever sleep beneath the blankets on the bed.

She’d bought a fleece blanket and kept it in her suitcase (she couldn’t bring herself to use the dresser), but the room seemed to suddenly grow colder soon as the sun went down. She’d swear to any god that she saw her breath last night, and pairing that with the ravens’ appearance this morning told her she needed to find another place to lay her head.

Which reminded her that she couldn’t be sure if the itching in her scalp was illusion or if that pillow had given her lice.

What she wouldn’t give for one of her dad’s cleaning spells right now, but any attempt at reaching towards Brigantia backfired (occasionally literally). She was near-useless as a witch, no ancestors, local spirits, or even gods willing to spare her power for spells. She had to rely entirely on ley lines, and finding them wasn’t exactly a science so much as a game of “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe—oops never mind that’s a fucking dead spot!”

She’d found a few ley lines so far, but ley line magic wasn’t much to boast about. Other than mild telekinesis—meaning anything heavier than a corgi was staying put—and illusion magic not even fit enough for the stage, Rachel couldn’t really do much, magic-wise.

Witches were only as powerful as the Otherworld allowed them to be, and there never seemed to be any pattern or reason for why it might gift one person more than another. It wasn’t fair!

And then there was the damn fae to contend with.

Grinding her teeth, Rachel washed her body with the shampoo suds running off her hair and shut off the water. She didn’t want to stand beneath the sputtering spray of cold water any longer, and her hair was oily enough she didn’t need to condition every wash anyway.

The ravens were gone by the time Rachel exited the bathroom to find clean clothes.

They’d delivered their message: There is no where she can go that their master couldn’t reach.

* * *

Jamie put Rachel to work with hardly a question or voiced concern. Either Rachel just seemed trustful and professional, or the bar was extremely understaffed.

Having seen only one other person wearing an apron, before he left after 4:30, Rachel figured it was the latter.

No matter. She needed the work to keep her mind busy and wallet lined. Living in Toronto wasn’t cheap, even with a run-down den of a motel as her (temporary) abode.

It was also nice to hear someone from home. Much as she couldn’t return to England, she was homesick. While her parents lived closer to Kent, she just told those who asked she was from London. Kent wasn’t far from there, so Rachel knew the city well and had enough stories to sell the white lie.

There was also always the “I don’t really want to discuss it” addition, which often worked well-enough to silence others and was true anyway.

“Love the hat,” a customer slurred as he gazed at Rachel.

The glassiness of his eyes was unsettling, but she didn’t get a dangerous vibe from him. Spells weren’t her forte, her intuition hardly ever led her astray—that satyr in San Francisco didn’t count; their special brand of magic made one’s instincts and intuition immediately scream “trustworthy.”

At least he had enough grace to give her the name of that selkie in Manitoba, near a town by Hudson Bay. She had been only marginally more helpful, though, only saying Rachel would find the help she required in Toronto.

Selkies were on par with witches and centaurs when it came to divining, but their premonitions were vague and mysterious as the depths they called home.

It was aggravating, and every new face sprung hope within Rachel’s chest that maybe, maybe, this would be the person who could help save her.

“Why thank you.” Rachel adjusted her fedora (a real one; not one of those trilbies) more than tipped it, but the blush on the guy’s face said he’d be the one tipping and hopefully generously.

Unlike the short time as a waitress in San Francisco, Rachel got to keep all her tips rather than the tips being gathered up and distributed evenly. Even the non-serving staff had gotten a cut, and while Rachel had been desperate for any spare penny she could pinch, she didn’t like to share.

The guy whisper-yelled to his friend soon as he thought Rachel was out of ear-shot about how hot she was, and Rachel had to dig up extra will to keep her smile plastered on. When she met Jamie’s smug look, however, a scowl slipped, Jamie’s expression shifting to one of pure joy at her new co-worker’s misfortune.

Sadism was how one got managerial positions no matter what country they were in, eh? Figured.

The bar filled up for a while as more people got off work, some leaving after a few shots while others lingered and allowed beer and liquor to loosen their tongues as they bitched to friends and strangers alike about a boss, co-worker, or partner.

There was a club down the street, so after nine, there was a new wave of people wanting a buzz before having to wait in line, a group of girls in their early twenties coming up with plans to cut the line and get in.

Before leaving, they’d decided on the “It’s her birthday” line for the girl in red stilettos and glittery dress that left nothing to the imagination—not that Rachel complained much. She was a much better sight than that guy earlier tonight, though she became marginally less attractive for tipping only a smile.

A smile wouldn’t pay for food, but Rachel wasn’t going to complain on her first day. Jamie was the first person so far willing to give her a chance. She was still filling out necessary paperwork to renew her visa, and other employers seemed to think she was going to change her mind right after getting hired and high-tail it back to England.

“How’s your first night?” Jamie asked, handing Rachel a shot of what looked and smelled like Scotch—bottom shelf, no doubt. “Don’t worry. It’s from my pay, not yours. We still have a few more hours ‘till close.”

She knocked her shot back, and Rachel followed suit, adjusting her hat afterwards so it wouldn’t fall off.

“I’ll give you your schedule at the end of the night,” Jamie promised, taking Rachel’s glass. “You’ll just have to clean the bar and tables tonight. Either me or Justin will show you the process for cleaning the kitchen, and you’ll clean bathrooms tomorrow.”

Before Rachel could respond, Jamie walked off and let her know that new customers were approaching the bar.

“… by myself.” The customer looked exhausted, despite being dressed as though ready to party.

Responding with a knowing look, a thin girl with dark brown skin and a pixie cut hummed something noncommittal.

“How may I help you two?” asked Rachel.

“Well, Dee needs a roommate and a shot of tequila, so they can calm the fuck down.” The customer smiled right at Rachel, holding out her card as Dee protested. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking around, would you?”

“I’m very sorry,” Dee sighed, running a hand through their fair hair and ruffling it up more than it already was. “And a beer is fine—Amy, I can pay.”

“You need to put all you got to rent right now,” Amy rebutted, and when she shook the card at Rachel, she took it. “I insist. Consider it a favor, and you can pay me back whenever.” She turned to Rachel. “Bottle of Old Vienna for her and a strawberry pom mojito for me.”

Dee was about to protest but sighed. “Isn’t dragging me out payment back enough?”

Rachel bit back a chuckle and swiped the card, promising to have their orders to them in a bit.

“That’s another favor to you to pay me back for. You were about to grow roots into that couch.” Amy took her card back. “Now go find us a table. I’ll come over with our drinks.”

“Fine. Just here, though. I can’t deal with clubbing right now.” Dee stocked off, body language closed-off. They looked like a fish out of water, here, even if the studded, leather vest; combat boots; and tattoo attempted to say otherwise.

“I was serious.” Amy slipped her wallet back into her clutch and dug around for something else.

“About what?” Rachel retrieved a glass and filled it with glass from the bucket.

She’d only made regular mojitos before, but the recipe book was right in front of her—out of view of the customers, who apparently preferred bartenders to have all cocktail recipes totally memorized, even if it was one not served at that particular bar. She made a subtle motion with her fingers, and the pages of the book flipped to the right page.

Toronto had a few ley lines, at least, that she’d managed to find. There were sure to be more if she searched, but she currently did not have the time, energy, or will.

Amy’s smirk deepened, and Rachel was about to ask what she was thinking about when a beaten coin appeared in front of the recipe book. It looked like bronze, and while Rachel couldn’t read the glyphs, she recognized them.

“Know how to use one of those?” Amy asked her, eyes sparkling. “I was serious about asking if you needed a place. Dee’s apartment isn’t too expensive, but it’s more than what she can afford by herself right now. And we got to stick together, right?”

Nodding, Rachel hesitated. “Right.”

Usually, she was perfectly capable of sniffing out another witch; Amy’s magic must be powerful to put up a shield to disguise her aura so well.

“I’ll have your drinks ready soon,” Rachel promised. “While you wait, mind answering a few questions? I’m not one that wanders home with someone she just met.”

Unless she planned on leaving in the morning before the other awoke. It wasn’t a walk of shame if no awkward eye contact was exchanged.

“Fair enough.” Amy jumped up to perch on one of the stools lining the bar. “What do you wanna know first? Any in-depth stuff can be answered later, if you don’t mind. Walls, ears, you know.”

Rachel found herself smiling, cheeks warming as she made the cocktail. “Dee is one too? How’d you two meet?”

“The crib.” She grinned at Rachel’s sudden look of confusion. “Our parents adopted us. They’re muggles”—there was no official word for non-supernaturals, but after Harry Potter became popular, most started using the word muggles, as it was unlikely to garner much attention—“but they know about us. Mostly. They don’t like knowing the details, only that we’re keeping our noses clean and all that.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

Non-supernaturals knowing about supernatural wasn’t anything new, and outside the few witches’ councils and vampire covens that had popped up now and again, there was no supernatural governing body enforcing rules of secrecy. Most figured it was high time they came out of hiding, anyway, but most did it slowly, making non-supernatural friends or even marrying non-supernaturals and telling them.

It was a slow going, but it was going.

“Yeah, they’re alright.” The flattening of Amy’s voice said that this wasn’t always entirely true, but it wasn’t Rachel’s place to pry. “But I’ll let Dee tell you more about themself later. They’re a pretty closed book.”

“Fair enough.” Rachel started cutting up strawberries. There were plenty still up here from all those drinks she made for Stiletto Girl and Company. “Anything particular that makes you deem me trustworthy enough to live with your sibling?”

“Well, first, you suck at shielding, so I’m pretty sure you don’t have much to hide.”

A corner of Rachel’s mouth twitched, and she narrowly missed slicing her finger into the strawberries.

“It’s whatever. I volunteer to help if you want.”

Rachel’s cheeks started to heat up again. “Thank you.” She finished mixing the drink and got the bottle of Old Vienna beer, popping off the top with ease. “Here you are.”

“Thank you!” Amy hopped off the stool and grabbed the drinks.

As she walked off, Dee waving at her from the corner in impatience, Rachel took the coin and slipped it into her back pocket.


End file.
